A notebook of nutgrafs

Existing on the internet has felt like sensory overload lately.

I had to tell my boss that I am depressed.

I recently had one of my neighbors — a 40-year-old woman with a husband and child — tell me that I seem extremely mature for my nubile young age of 25.

I have a journal that has five lines per day for every day of the year for five years.

My shitty little pots.

Why is it that being lonely is often manageable, but when a cure is just out of reach, it becomes so much more unbearable?

Throughout my life, I have never felt remorse over being born a woman.

An excerpt from my journal recently: My brain feels like it's at odds with itself.

I realized recently that I spend a good bit of my free time consuming political news and debate.

Woof.